


Ghost's of Easter Past

by TwistLimeGreen72



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Little Bucky, memories are painful, notebooks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 14:24:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6427483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistLimeGreen72/pseuds/TwistLimeGreen72
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Easter Sunday and Bucky finds himself visited by memories of long ago. </p><p>No slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost's of Easter Past

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This little ficlet was inspired in part by the notebooks, Sebastian Stan says Bucky carries in his backpack and by the holiday! I hope you all enjoy and feedback would be much appreciated, good or bad!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Bucky Barnes!

Disclaimer: I don't own Bucky Barnes!

It was Easter Sunday and Bucky was a child. He sat on a hard church pew between his mother and father, swinging his legs back and forth, his dark head slightly bent. Multi colored light streamed in through the arched stained glass windows, lining the walls, in shades of yellow, blue and red. A priest dressed in flowing white robes, preached with his back to the congregation, using strange words. Latin was what his parents called it. Bucky paid more attention to the images depicted in the windows and the way the light streaming through them looked, dancing across the silk flowers on the hat of a woman in the row ahead of them than the words being spoken.

His mother reached over, gently placing her palm against his knee, the long cream colored lace that hung from her sleeve fanning out across his gray knickers as she said "James." Her voice, soft and scolding, barely above a whisper. He peered up at her through the white veil covering her face, just able to make out the look in her blue eyes. That was the second time since they sat down, she had had to remind him to sit still. The action had the desired effect and Bucky stopped his movements and sat up straighter. Head still bent, his attention shifted toward his father, pausing on the charcoal colored hat with the lighter gray band resting on his father's knee.

Bucky knew it was very important to sit up straight and not wiggle around in church, especially, during Easter Mass.

As his mother was buttoning up his dark gray jacket and straightening his clothes that morning she had said, "now James, remember to be my good little man and sit up straight during mass and don't fidget." He had said "don't worry momma, I will." She'd leaned down, placed a soft kiss on his cheek then took his hand and away they'd gone.

Bucky was really trying to be on his best behavior, but it was very hard when he'd much rather be outside playing and it was something he always forgot quickly and like normal, his short little legs were soon swinging to and fro again.

This time it was his father that reminded him to sit still. He didn't touch Bucky like his mother had done, he simply leaned closer and whispered his name. Bucky felt his mother's hand slip into his and instead of swinging his legs, he sat staring at the striped pattern on his mother's skirt and toyed with the thin gold band on her finger.

The sound of a car horn and screeching brakes filled Bucky's ears and pulled him from his recollections. His gaze snapped to the busy street behind him, then moved back to the old church just in time to see the doors closing. Still caught in the vividness of the memory, his eyes drifted over the churchyard before him. The time worn, gray stone facade of the church with its vaulted stain glass windows and high steeple, rising up several feet higher than the old trees around it.

He hesitated for a moment, part of him wanted to go inside. It felt like something was drawing him toward the place. Like maybe if he went inside his... Bucky shoved the feeling aside, knowing that he wouldn't find what he was looking for, there was no way his parents where there.

In the end he shoved his hands in his pockets, ducked his head and started walking down the sidewalk again. The familiar weight of the small backpack he always carried, resting against his back, gave him some comfort in the wake of his chaotic emotions.

This memory had started like most others, something would remind him of something. Today it had been seeing a priest standing near the door of the church, welcoming parishioners and the white robes he wore and somehow Bucky knew the white had meant something. The word Easter had whispered through his head along with the flash of another man dressed similarly a very long time ago.

These images had been some of the most vivid he'd experienced yet, coming together quickly in his mind's eye. But no matter the brightness of the memory or maybe because of it, when that hollow feeling came; the one that always accompanied pictures in his head, it was stronger. The memory didn't end as he moved away, though it didn't pull him in as deeply this time. It came in broken bits and pieces.

His father standing to take communion and leaving Bucky and his mother in the pew and a little girl..

She was sitting not far from him and Bucky knew he should remember her. Dark brown hair, pulled back from her face. She smiled at him, her large brown eyes mirroring the gesture.

The image of her face and the odd feeling it brought with it stayed with him as he carefully made his way along the crowded streets, toward the place he was calling home. It was really just the driest spot he could find on the top floor of one of the many old brick warehouses lining a deserted part of the waterfront. He hadn't seen anyone else there since he'd discovered the place two weeks ago and the top floor gave him the perfect vantage point to see anyone who might come along.

Other broken bits and pieces of that memory came along with those things and followed him as he walked. Stepping out of the church in front of his father. His father's hand resting heavily on his shoulders as they moved slowly down the aisle. Playing in the churchyard with the brown eyed little girl as he waited for his parents.

The image suddenly shifted and he remembered a similar moment, he was much older, but there was another dark haired little girl. The sun shining brightly and somehow he knew it was another Easter Sunday, like it was today and in his last memory. The feel of her holding his hand in her own pudgy little one, tugging him toward a green lawn, dotted with little white flowers. Her dark hair was pulled back in a braid and secured with a blue ribbon that matched the dress she wore and her eyes, the same eyes he saw in his own reflection. She was giggling happily and a smile tugged at his lips for a moment as he remembered the sound. Then an image of her dressed the same way, but with a necklace woven out of those same small flowers around her neck and another adorning her head.

Desperate to hold onto every detail of these new memories, until he could write them down, he tried to remember what those flowers were called.

Daisies.

That's what those flowers were called, focusing on the image another filled his head. His mother and sister sitting on a red blanket, spread out across the grass as his mother patiently helped his sister weave a daisy chain. They'd made him one as well.

A happy feeling slipped around him, enveloping him for a moment. It vanished as quickly as it came, however, and an all too familiar pressure compressed his chest, leaving him sick to his stomach.

Thanks so much for reading!


End file.
